


pink + white

by MonikaKrasnorada



Series: Futile Devices [4]
Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 06:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15480069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonikaKrasnorada/pseuds/MonikaKrasnorada
Summary: You have been a champion of this series since the beginning, before youhadto be because we were friends. Your support, in all things, means the world to me. You are what I strive to be as a writer, but know I will never come close. You inspire me, every day and I love you dearly.





	pink + white

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iknowthebattle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iknowthebattle/gifts).



> You have been a champion of this series since the beginning, before you _had_ to be because we were friends. Your support, in all things, means the world to me. You are what I strive to be as a writer, but know I will never come close. You inspire me, every day and I love you dearly.

 

Just the same way you showed me, showed me

You showed me love

Glory from above

Good Glory, dear

It's all downhill from here

**_Pink + White, Frank Ocean_ **

 

* * *

  
  
  


The back of Timmy’s eyelids rasped against his eyesballs  like sandpaper as he blinked sluggishly awake. He winced at the gruesome, over-dramatic thought, trying to make sense of the room in front of him. It was pitched at an odd angle, all wrong, until he realised his head was hanging off the side of the bed. Lifting it proved to be a mistake as his neck screamed for mercy, unleashing a painful, pulsing thud as his temples. 

He continued to blink against the light, too bright, leaking in through a ripped and torn shade barely clinging to life from a single grimy window at the other end of the room. For a moment, Tim is mesemerised by the dust motes he sees floating in a ray of golden sunshine, careless and carefree, causing irrational envy to rise like a tide, forcing him to shift his head in shame. The movement focuses their spotlight on an unworthy Timothée, where it now partially struck his face, a laser beam hitting him dead-center in one eye. With a hiss, he closed them both against the onslaught but not before noticing the beer cans and empty liquor bottles littering every available surface of the tiny room.  

The ratty carpet, the mangled blinds, the too-small bed were all the evidence he needed to know this was not, in fact, his apartment. He had no idea  _ where  _ he was or who any of these people were, but what did register were all the hallmarks of a post-MDMA epic cuddle-puddle.

He lay sprawled diagonally across a bare mattress in nothing but boxers and the t-shirt from the night before. There were a pair of feet next to his head and another pair of shins lying like dead-weight across his thighs. He turned his head, letting it fall back and drape off the side again, hair flopping into one eye. On the floor, at the foot of the bed, he assumed (hoped) there was a body attached to only the head he could see on the floor where it slept peacefully perched against another disembodied hip.

He groaned, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, parting his lips with a dry, crackling sound,  parched. His stomach heaved and he took a deep breath trying to quell the revolt. Swallowing made it worse, the foul taste of the morning after adding to his general desire to vomit and get it over with.

His current situation was a very poignant, and  _ pointed, _ reminder as to why he never did this anymore. Vivid recollections of the night before flashed through his mind. Yeah, okay, there were moments of blissful perfection and sheer euphoria which always came with such a spectacular high,but there were the moments he never wanted to remember,  which he was determined to  _ forget _ through sheer force of will alone.

The onset of a high was always so enticing, tricking his mind and obliterating the memory of what the reality of the comedown inevitably brought.

What his current situation represented was normally his favorite part of the experience. Luxuriating in the need to touch and be touched the drug always fostered within him. A crystalline moment in time when he understood the mysteries and complexities of the universe. While the drug raced through his blood-stream, it forced his body to release every molecule of serotonin it had to spare, until he was convinced he invincible and nothing would ever be as perfect as _ that exact moment. _ He and his friends had undergone the most intense bonding sessions during those trips, lying together, speaking of dreams of their future and believing anything was possible. It’s where Timothée discovered the power of  _ touch,  _ how he melted at the slightest stroke of his hair, or the faintest brush of lips against the back of his neck. It taught him, when his words failed,  emotion and sentiment could easily be transferred through touch alone.

From the night before, he has the vague memory of craving and wanting to be touched, needing it like air, but instead of the pleasure and gratification it normally gave him, he had barely managed to endure it. It sorely lacked the intensity he was used to because these weren’t his friends. The connection was lost.

He’d failed to calculate the fact none of these randos were the  _ one person _ Timmy  _ yearned _ and ached to touch him.

Sobering in the light of day, the memories— all the memories— of the night before,  made Timothée want to retreat and withdraw when he normally would have found comfort in the bodies lying next to him.  He should want to roll over, press himself against the warm bodies with him in bed, luxuriate in the contact, but now he just wanted to get as far away as he could.

He had never felt more lonely or bereft and it pissed him off. Timmy had swallowed the pill last night with every intention of enjoying himself. He’d done it without thought or regret, with only a singular motive in mind, but of course, no amount of drug could  erase the very reason he was seeking oblivion- _ Armie.  _ He’d merelyj wanted to forget, the pain and disappointment of Armie’s change of plans—  _ again _ . He had somehow hoped it would help him feel something  _ other _ than the clawing, gnawing pain and heartache he now constantly lived with. How  _ cliché _ . What a fucking rookie move, to fall for his co-star.  _ His straight, married co-star _ .

Staring up at the gray, water-stained ceiling, Timmy groaned inwardly. How could he have been so _stupid_? Armie was a good guy, but he’d only been caught up in the magic spell of that filming experience just as Timmy had been. The catalyst had been in believing the idea of the _summer of love;_ it had been an infection that permeated the very air around them. Combined with Luca’s lack of boundaries and his neverending tender expectation that Armie and Timmy follow suit _“for the good of the production; for the sake of the art”,_  had all coalesced into a clusterfuck of emotional upheaval that left Timmy and Armie reeling in the maelstrom, struggling _still_ to understand what had happened and how they now forged a way to move on.

The memory of Crema was enough to send his stomach roiling again, as he carefully  disentangled himself from the strange bodies twined with him on the bed. There were only a few grumbles as they rearranged themselves into the space he left behind once he scrambled away, stumbling down the dim hallway to find a bathroom.

If he hadn’t already been on the verge of vomiting, the nasty little room would have been enough to send him spiralling down that path. All he could do was close his eyes and hope his aim was better than the person that had been in there before him. With every heave and rancid expulsion of bile, he cursed himself more.  _ What was he doing? _ There was Oscar buzz surrounding a film he  _ starred _ in but you wouldn’t know it to look at him now. Like some fucking washed up has been when he hadn’t even been invited to the party yet.

_ The fuck was wrong with him? _

All of this over some  _ guy _ ? Timmy was better than this.

He angrily turned on the taps, the water screaming through the pipes as if they ascended from the bowels of hell. He winced at the sound but didn’t give a shit if it woke anyone up. What did he care? He didn’t _ know _ these people and they certainly didn’t know him.

He rinsed his mouth, splashed cold water onto his face. He didn’t recognise himself in the dirty mirror above the sink. Hollow eyes stared at him and he shuddered. He didn’t know where he was. He hadn’t been this low in years and it terrified him. He had to get a grip.

He clung to the wall for support, suddenly desperate to escape, to get out of wherever he was. The apartment too small, too crowded, full of the stench of unwashed bodies and stale cigarette smoke. Nearly blind with rising panic, he located his jeans, his hoodie, his shoes. With shaking fingers, he found his phone still in the pocket, relief washing through him in a rush that left him trembling. The terror he could have been so wasted, so out of it as to lose the only connection he had left to Armie was enough to leave him wanting to vomit again.

Timmy pulled his clothes on as quickly as he could manage, his coordination fucked, tipping sideways more than once as he struggled into his shoes. He managed to pull on his hoodie, his hair crackling with static as his head popped through the neck before he was out the door, practically running down the four flights of stairs to the lobby.

He burst through the entrance of the apartment building as if it were on fire, the sudden blast of cold air he met felt like running headlong into a brick wall. Timmy gasped and flinched, pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt, his shoulders lifting around his ears as if that offered any protection against the cold at all. His jacket had been nowhere in sight in the rooms he just escaped from and he had no way of knowing where or when he lost it during the night.

He stood on the sidewalk, looking up and down, trying to gain any sense of direction or idea as to where the fuck he actually was. He was cold and tired, the full come-down hitting him hard. There were tiny aches and pains making themselves known he was certain hadn’t been there the day before. His left knee was stiff, his throat felt sore. All he wanted was his warm apartment, his soft, empty bed.

Tears burned at the corner of his eyes, easy enough to blame on the blast of arctic air  blowing down the street and not the pathetic  _ need _ he had to cry. Nothing looked familiar to him and he was too tired to think. Lost in his own fucking city,  Timmy pulled out his phone to search where he was when he saw all the notifications lighting up the screen.

Twelve unread texts, seven missed calls and two voicemails— all from Armie.

His heart immediately dropped to the sidewalk where he stood, recalling the memory of  the last message he’d sent to him during the night. It played in his head like a bad dream. But it hadn’t been a dream, just a living nightmare. Timmy’s skin crawled, remembering the sweaty body pressing him into the wall of the hallway, damp breath on his neck with lascivious intent, combining with the drug in his system making him hard with want and need. It was easy in that moment to convince himself any warm body would do. Any willing mouth would suffice. But it was a lie he no longer believed in the light of day.

His finger hovered over the phone screen, raw from exposure to the frigid air, frozen from the fear of what Armie’s responses would say. Timmy knew they couldn’t be good. How else did he think Armie would respond to how he had behaved? What Timmy had done was so inappropriate he wouldn’t have been surprised if Armie had found twelve very creative ways for Timmy to go fuck himself.

God, he wanted to hate Armie so fucking badly and sometimes he could almost convince himself he did, like when he pulled shit like he did the night before.  Timmy  _ hated _ the feelings he not-so-secretly harbored for Armie. It infuriated him because it made him wish he’d never even signed on for the film. The singular most important experience of his life would forever be tainted and tarnished because he couldn’t manage to separate art from real life.

Timmy  _ knew _ he was a fucking joke and now maybe, he’d convinced Armie of it, too. Because for all the pain and heartache Timmy’s stupid crush brought him, maybe what happened last night would turn out to be a blessing in disguise and Armie would finally see reason to walk away because Timmy knew he’d never be strong enough to do it on his own.

Timmy shivered against the cold, pulling up his maps feature, and figuring out which direction to trudge in order to get home. Luckily he was only a dozen blocks away, as he started walking down the deserted alley. There was a subway station close, but the thought of being packed inside the stale air of a subway car, with all those bodies too close for comfort, he decided he’d rather freeze. Besides the cold air was helping to clear the fog of his drug hangover.

For all his needing and wanting to forget, his current state couldn’t help but remind him of happier times barely a month before. Frustrating him to wonder if every memory of his life would now somehow always center around Armie?

 

________________________

 

_ Timmy was asleep before the plane left New York airspace. They had smoked so much weed, God, it was insane. So, even though Timmy hated to fly, the six-hour non-stop to LA was a welcome blessing. _

_ It had been a whirlwind return to NYC for the film premiere. Barely 53 hours they’d been in the city with no sleep, doing press calls, and q&a’s, morning tv appearances for Armie, nighttime tv appearances for Timmy. Just… a lot, too much. Of course, Armie thought it would be  _ amazing _ if they did it all high, so who was Timmy to argue with him? He was keyed up and nervous, anything to calm his shit was more than welcome. _

_ They’d spent those nearly three days in Timmy’s city, stoned off their asses, laughing at their own private jokes, pissing Liz and Luca off when they failed to act accordingly. Timmy didn’t care. The moon rose and set on Armie Fucking Hammer and if he wanted Timmy to get high with him, then that was what he was going to do. _

_ Coast to coast travel, there and back again, within the span of three days, would have been enough to do Timmy in without  adding anything to the mix. He was nervous by nature, but the sudden notoriety of the film, of him and Armie, it all coalesced to bring his stress to an all time high. It really was starting to get to all of them and the upcoming holiday break in promo was looking more and more welcome by the day. _

_ “What are your plans for Thanksgiving?” _

_ Timmy loved how deep Armie’s voice could get when he held a lungful of smoke while speaking at the same time.  He watched from the corner of his narrowed eyes as Armie’s neck stretched, exhaling slowly, smoke rising in a white plume to hover above their heads before passing the spliff over. _

_ November in NYC was fucking freezing. No surprise there, at least it gave them an excuse for standing huddled so close on the rooftop balcony of the MoMA, smoking, instead of  _ mingling _ as was normally expected for the stars of a film, post-premiere. _

_ It was exciting, the hype building around the film, but neither of them were used to this sort of constant attention. Armie had more exposure to it, but Timmy was blinded by the constant pop and whir of flashbulbs and being inundated with the same questions over and over again. He was totally keen to follow Armie’s lead. And Armie had led them outside, so who was Timmy to argue? _

_ “Hadn’t really thought about it,” Timmy shrugged, drawing deep on the cigarette, desperately trying  _ not  _ to think if he could really feel the dampness left behind on the paper from Armie’s lips or if it were just wishful dreaming. He shook his head with a rough exhale. “Can’t believe it’s actually next week. Sure my mom has something planned, I guess.” _

_ Armie hummed, shoving his hands in the pockets of the vermilion Calvin Klein he was wearing. “Was thinking if you didn’t have any set plans, you could stay with us, for the holiday. Save you from having to make the flight there and back again by yourself after, you know? We can all fly back for the Gotham’s.” The offer was so casual it made Timmy’s stomach do a little flip. _

_ Pressing the back of his hand against his mouth, Timmy tried to hold back a cough as he choked on an inhale. He wasn’t about to think twice. “Um, yeah. If you’re sure? That would be great, man. Thanks.” _

_ Armie chuckled, clasping Timmy’s shoulder in his over-large palm, the heat of it quickly seeping through the black satin of Timmy’s jacket. He shivered. _

_ “Of course, I’m sure. There’s a birthday party for Ash one day next week, but nothing else on the agenda. Just some fucking California sunshine and we’ll smoke something we can actually eat, how about that?” _

_ Timmy rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation at the lame joke, but suddenly over warm with the idea of being included in Armie’s circle and the chance to watch him in his element. He nodded, handing over the smoke. _

_ Armie pinched the light from the end, throwing the butt over the railing. “Let’s get you inside, you’re actually shivering. I told you that jacket wasn’t enough. What kind of  New Yorker are you? It’s November for fuck’s sake!” Armie laughed, hearty and deep, the sound of it chasing another shiver across Timmy’s chilled skin. _

_ Timmy dutifully followed Armie back inside knowing he had no idea why it was so easy for Timmy to withstand the cold, unaware that being in the presence of Armie alone was enough to warm him from the inside out.  _

_ It had taken Timmy nearly two days to feel back to normal once they landed in SoCal. Two days of lounging by Armie’s pool, soaking in all that warm California sun which seemed to shine simply because Armie deemed it so. He chased Ford and Harper around the backyard, laughing as they squealed in delight once “Uncle Timmy” caught them. _

_ He was doing his best to be useful, to stay out of the way, constantly worried to be caught out staring too long at Armie by Armie or, worse yet, Liz. Something was ‘off’ with her, between them, ever since the flight, as if not only had they traveled time zones but also passed through some sort of perpetual cold front. _

_ He considered asking Armie what the problem was, if he had inadvertently said or done something to cause a shift, but hated the idea of putting Armie in the middle of something that might only be in his head. It was easier to convince himself  it was his own guilty conscience, harboring secret feelings for her husband, making him hyper-aware of every little thing about her. He couldn’t blame her, really. And, he could have gone on thinking it was all in his head until the evening of Ash’s birthday and the knock that came on the guest room door. _

_ “Hey, sorry, I’m almost ready,” Timmy smiled, stepping aside to let Armie into the room.   _

_ “No rush,” Armie’s gaze traveled around the room before stepping in, leaving the door ajar behind him. “Umm, here you go,” Armie handed over a plain white t-shirt. _

_ “Thanks, man. I appreciate you letting me borrow something. Looks like I’m seriously gonna have to break down and do laundry,” Timmy huffed a laugh, pulling on the shirt. It was too big, but draped Timmy in Armie’s smell. Distracting. _

_ Armie’s smile was tight.  There was something awkward in the way he stood there, eyes never landing for too long on any one thing in particular. It made Timmy nervous. “Not a problem.” _

_ Timmy nodded, uncomfortable with the tension suddenly rising between them. “I’ll be sure to wash this and get it back to you.” _

_ “It’s cool, don’t worry about it.” _

_ Timmy’s stomach tightened. Something was wrong. He could  _ ask _ but that would be too much the ‘adult’ thing to do, so he simply continued sifting through the mess on the dresser until he found the sunglasses he was looking for,  donning them with a flourish and a spin in Armie’s direction. “Ready!” _

_ Armie remained silent, staring at the floor at Timmy’s feet. Timmy’s guts twisted with unease. _

_ There was nothing for it but to step right in it now, the smile fading from his face. “What’s up?” _

_ Somehow Timmy knew before Armie opened his mouth. Not that he  _ knew _ , he wasn’t psychic for fuck’s sake. It simply made all the strangeness he had hoped he was imagining over the past couple of days make an eerie kind of sense. _

_ Armie’s eyes finally locked on Timmy’s, miserable. He took a deep breath. “There’s been a… change of plans. Liz-  _ we’ve _ decided to take the kids and celebrate Thanksgiving with my mom in Dallas and then fly up to Denver with her parents.” _

_ “Oh,” Tim nodded, chewing on his bottom lip as he removed his sunglasses. “And I-?” _

_ “Yeah, you are more than welcome to stay here, hang out till we get back.” _

_ It wasn’t like Timmy  _ expected  _ to be invited to their family holiday- “Thanks, man. Yeah, I’ll figure something out.” _

_ “Listen, T. I’m really sorry. I was looking forward to just taking time and hanging out. We all need this break, you know? But Liz… she thinks it’s important. Tradition and all. You understand, right?” _

_ “Liz, yeah, of course,” Timmy forced a smile, his throat closing around his attempt to swallow. “It’s all good, dude.” _

_ But it wasn’t. Everything from that moment on was forced and stilted. Timmy walked on pins and needles the entire night, wishing more than once, he’d bowed out, stayed back at their place instead of having to pretend to enjoy himself amongst their longtime pals. He was too aware of every instance Liz’s eyes drifted to where he stood next to Armie, talking to Armie, laughing with Armie. It was unbearable. _

_ Once they returned to the house, Timmy retreated to the guest room, unable to take another second of scrutiny after the birthday party.  He was in bed, where his phone glowed too bright in the dark room later as he scrolled instagram, read emails, watched stupid videos on Youtube. He felt like an idiot the entire time, or worse yet, a  _ child _ grounded, sent to their room. He flinched when, once more, there was a knock on his door. _

_ Armie didn’t wait for permission to enter, it was his house after all. Timmy shifted up in bed, putting his phone aside and switching on the tiny lamp on the bedside table. _

_ “I thought you might still be up,” Armie’s voice was low as he made his way to the bed, taking a seat at Timmy’s hip. He had a blanket in his hands. “It’s supposed to be cooler tonight, thought you might need this.” _

_ Timmy blinked, taking the neatly compact fold of dark blue material from Armie’s hands. He clutched it to his chest, the need to hold onto something suddenly overwhelming. Bringing his knees to his chest, he curled himself around the blanket, fighting the urge to throw himself into Armie’s arms. _

_ “Thanks,” he managed around the raw and jagged lump in his throat. _

_ Armie leaned back on his palms, staring at his feet, stretched out in front of him across the floor. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?” _

_ Timmy wanted to snort at the irony. He pressed his mouth against the blanket and blinked up at Armie. _

_ “You just seemed… quiet tonight.” _

_ Timmy can’t tell if Armie is being genuine or just thick. _

_ “I’m good. Tired, mostly, I think,” it’s not a lie and comes out easy enough. _

_ Armie nodded with a hum of agreement. “I’m glad you can take the next couple of days to relax then. You’ve got the run of the house while we’re gone. We plan on heading back on Saturday. So you can plan those wild parties accordingly,” he teased, knocking Timmy’s shin with an elbow. _

_ Timmy smiled, nervously rubbing at the back of his neck. He cleared his throat. _

_ “Shouldn’t be worried about that. I’m gonna fly home Thursday morning-” _

_ Armie groaned. “No, you don’t have to leave. We don’t care to have you stay.” _

_ Timmy was certain Armie didn’t care, but- He smiled, nodding his head, offering a shrug. “I know, and I appreciate it. Just seems silly now to stay here alone, when I could be home with the fam.” _

_ Armie leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “I guess. Fuck, T, I’m sorry. If I hadn’t invited you in the first place, you wouldn’t have to fly back by yourself. That was the whole point in the first place.” _

_ Timmy tries not to be hurt to find out that’s the only reason he’d been invited. “Nah, man, it’s all good. And, it’s not like I  _ can’t _ fly by myself,” Timmy nudged Armie’s hip with his toes. “I’m not that much of a child.”   _

_ Armie huffed a laugh. “That’s debatable.” _

_ This time Timmy lifted his foot, digging his toes into Armie’s side. He squirmed for a second, before gripping Timmy’s ankle, holding him still. _

_ Timmy froze, his breath catching in his chest as Armie’s thumb swept across the top of his foot. He cursed the dim light of the bedside lamp, wanting to see clearly Armie’s eyes, hating that he wanted to convince himself that they grew dark as he looked at Timmy before placing his foot back on the bed. _

 

________________________

  
  


The Hammers left early the next morning. He didn’t stay there by choice, the day before Thanksgiving, there were no flights out on such short notice. Timmy wasn’t able to leave until early on Thanksgiving morning.

Empty, the house was too big, too lonely. Having grown up in less square footage than their sitting room, Timmy felt lost in the rambling home, wandering from room to room. He wasn’t sure but, looking back on it now, he thinks he knew it would be the last time he was a guest in their home and wanted to commit to memory everything he could about being in Armie’s space.

Timmy paused on the sidewalk, eyes closed. The hollow anguish he had felt then came back to him in a rush that took his breath away. He missed Armie with every fiber of his being. He didn’t have to go back and watch the videos he had posted to Instagram to recall the mournful pining that hadn’t eased even when he laid himself down on Armie’s side of their bed, his tears soaking into the pillow which cradled Armie’s head.

Timmy felt like he was choking on the hot dry burn of unshed tears and knew he couldn’t resist a second longer. He swiped a frozen finger across his phone screen. For better or worse, he  _ needed _ to believe there was some connection left between he and Armie. Even if it were only angry words typed on a screen.

 

**December 30, 2017**

**1:49AM** <I know you can see that I’ve 

                   seen the vids. WTF? You need 

                   to get your ass home and hope 

                   to fuck no one sees you out like 

                   that. Jesus, T>

 

**1:50AM** <Call. Me.>

 

**2:23AM** <I cannot believe you are being 

                 so fucking stupid>

 

**2:37AM** <ANSWER YOUR GODDAMN PHONE>

 

**2:43AM** <I have never wanted to beat someone 

                 senseless before in my life. Do you understand 

                 what you have done? What you are 

                 JEOPARDIZING? Are you trying to sabotage 

                 your career before it’s even started? WTF, T? 

                 I don’t understand what is going on with you.

 

**3:03AM** <Talk to me. I can’t help you if you 

                 won’t talk to me. Fuck.>

 

**3:07AM** <Please tell me this isn’t because I couldn’t

                 make it this weekend>

 

**3:21AM** <Let me know you are okay>

 

**3:44AM** <Please be okay, Tim. I can’t. Please>

 

**6:59AM** <Call me. I won’t be mad. Just. As 

                  soon as you can. A call, that’s all I ask>

 

**9:36AM** <I have to talk to you. Now.>

 

**9:57AM** <There are things I need to tell you. 

                   Please, T. Don’t lock me out. I hope what 

                   I have to say is what you want to hear. 

                   What you need to hear. What I’ve put 

                   off too long saying to you. I’m sorry. 

                   Please I need you to be okay and to listen to me.

 

By the time Timmy  finished scrolling he can barely read the words through the tears streaming down his wind-chapped cheeks. He sniffs, swiping his nose with the back of his hand. The time of the last missed call was only minutes after the last text, more than three hours earlier. He knows he deserves nothing less, but the idea that Armie may have given up hurts more than he could have known.

His worry is palpable. Timmy feels the guilt of it down to the hollow pit of his stomach. His finger is poised to text a trite, humble apology, nothing more than an “I’m okay” so that Armie’s conscience will be eased and he can go on his way now, guilt-free.

His phone vibrates in his hand,  _ Dougie _ appearing on the screen like a life preserver thrown at him as he’s going down for the last time. He nearly drops his phone, fingers uncoordinated with cold and fear. He presses the phone to his ear, a sob wrenched from his throat-

“ _ Armie.” _

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This installment will be two chapters. It felt important to get both Timmy and Armie's perspectives in the aftermath and it just seemed to make more sense to keep them bundled as two separate chapters and not two separate parts. If that makes sense. Thanks to anyone still hanging on for this story. I know it's been a long time coming with an update, and I apologise. Hopefully, it won't take quite so long going forward.


End file.
